This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of the story.
At last, after a period outside time, of impossible, unmeasurable duration, she experiences for the first time the paradoxical experience of an unbearable wait being replaced by gut-twisting apprehension at the certainty of impending shame as a strange man approaches, grinning cheerfully, leering almost; brazen as he looks her body over, certain of nothing other than that she is now going to be used and abused by this stranger for his own pleasure, without any consideration at as to her feelings or wellbeing, and that her choices consist of softly and sweetly subjecting herself to the service of that pleasure, or alternatively of resisting such service, then being cruelly treated until she begs for the chance to softly and sweetly service that pleasure after all, only with added tear-stains, humiliation and welts.
It is all she can do to maintain her position, her pose as he approaches, as she realises with dawning turmoil that he is not alone, this stranger, but that he has a young woman with him -- a girl -- not even twenty by the unbearable freshness of her skin; a remarkably lovely girl in a dress that is at the same time intimidatingly elegant and devastatingly sexy.
The fact that this girl's expression is off somehow -- closed, mulish, doesn't reduce the agonies of humiliation that suddenly boil inside her; the desperation to break her un-natural pose, to jump up, run to the loos, something -- anything -- to escape from the close inspection of another woman.
She has never even considered this possibility before, but of course she has been on the other end of the telescope -- when she, well dressed, on her boyfriend's arm, sat in a comfortable chair in an elegant room full of well-dressed and clearly wealthy patrons, served by attentive waitresses, to watch the destruction of the lovely blonde girl she had just been sitting at a dining table with.
She knows just how she judged the humbled and defeated beauty, how the words slut, whore, wanton, skank were in her mind -- so much more cutting from one woman to another than from a man's mouth; just how she sneeringly she had condemned the blonde, even before the worst of it. And so she knows -- is certain of -- the judgements that are being made by this young, elegant girl of her, her with her dress so obviously unbuttoned, her posture so clearly constrained, her tongue so suggestively extended, clearly inviting any man to imagine how it might be to put a cock into her.
She thinks she would like to die of this agony -- be saved anything further -- but of course there is no such easy escape.
Worse, she finds herself desperately widening the weak whore's smile to include the newcomers, turning to face them, welcoming, pathetic -- all the while without raising her eyes to their faces, another crushing humiliation that burns like fire.
But again, there is nothing that can be done but endure, now that all other options seem beyond consideration; this, too, must be borne.
The next minutes are terrible, as, offhandedly grabbing a chair from a nearby table, the stranger seats his girl, then ignores her to stand at her lover's side (must she start thinking of him as her Master?) to exchange pleasantries as if nothing unusual is happening -- ignoring both women completely for some minutes, until turning to face her, spending some seconds appraising her more closely now, which sets off the trembling again, uncontrollable, her cheeks burning, shaming her for her shame, the taste of ashes in her mouth again.
"So, this is the filly? eh? Good set of tits on it. Yes, quite a tasty morsel. I've seen her before, haven't I? No? I could have sworn -- ah I have it -- is she the one you showed us the video of -- the gang-fucking? That's it, yes, I remember. You had high hopes of her then. Seems you were well justified -- good work, man! "
"So she's all ready for me, you say -- submitted -- recorded, all that stuff? Excellent. All mine then. You sit back and enjoy the ride now -- you deserve it -- you've been working hard, it seems."
Then, as if suddenly remembering -- indicating the girl;
"Oh, yeah -- this is Alison. We were out -- I told her she needed to see this, but she's sulking -- aren't you girly? Pissed off she can't show me off to her little pals this evening."
Leaning over to the girl;
"You don't fool me, lovely -- you're fascinated, I know. Not many girls get to witness this sort of thing as it happens; you're lucky, you know?"
He laughs, warm, easy -- genuinely cheerful it seems.
She can't imagine herself ever feeling happy again, and, unlooked for, the cruel irony makes her laugh again, a little, although this speedily threatens to become a sob, and she has to stifle it, chest heaving with the effort, appalled at the way this sets her breasts moving, impossible to hide, impossible to accept, obvious, eye-catching.
Why is this agony so sweet, this shaming so liberating, this heartlessness so foolishly welcomed? How can this awful shame at the same time be a glory, the pain as sweet, as delicious, as delirious as it is searing? How can this be her?
And then the stranger is pulling a chair round closer to her, on the opposite side to her lover, leaning in. His breath reeks of drink, but he seems fully in control, his sneering patrician accent still sharp as he talks in a slightly lowered tone;
"You'll obey me perfectly now, slut, or regret it most bitterly. First thing, I need you to keep very still; this -- see it? -- is razor sharp. I'd love to cut you -- watch the despair in your eyes; but just this once I'm showing it to you without intending to draw blood."
